


Back to One

by orphan_account



Series: Lights, Camera... [1]
Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF
Genre: Come Play (mild), Hand Jobs, M/M, Rimming, Sexting, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-17
Updated: 2019-05-17
Packaged: 2020-03-06 23:43:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18861358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: He presses against Timmy’s hand inside his pocket and runs two fingers along the crease of Timmy’s groin, the spot that always makes Timmy’s legs shake when Armie’s got his head between them. And it works this time too, as Timmy draws a shuddered breath but keeps his body absolutely still, in the line that his director wants. That Armie wants.For a while now I've wanted to play on Armie's oft-expressed desire to direct, and have him direct Timmy in something while playing with their erotic tension. There ended up being a lot more smut here than I was planning, but I assumed that wouldn't be cause for alarm.





	Back to One

_ “‘S too fucking early.” _

 

_ “Aww, you’re such a ray of sunshine first thing in the morning.” _

 

_ “Fuck off, Armie, you’re the one who wanted a second bottle of wine. Let me sleep it off, huh?” _

 

_ “Not today, baby. We’ve got a call in two hours. That short film for the museum, remember?” _

 

_ “Oh, fuck. Fine. But you’re the goddamn director, can’t you make the call time later than 8 in the morning?” _

 

_ “Nah. I like the taste of your cock best at 6.” _

 

_ “That’s not fair. Thanks to you now I’ve gotta get up and shower and get to wardrobe so  _ **_you_ ** _ can order me around. When I’d much rather be here getting a blow job...from you.” _

 

_ “Uh oh. Looks like my lead actor is a bit of a diva…” _

 

*****

 

Armie’s curiosity about directing had made him a natural volunteer to direct a film clip that would play at the Hammer Museum’s new Egon Schiele exhibit. Timmy’s moody, noncompliant hair and European whippet-thin shape had made him a natural pick to play Schiele. When Armie suggested it, it seemed like even his yes-men said yes faster than usual. There’s been one day of second-unit shooting, cityscapes through leaded glass and paint falling to the floor, that post-production will put in slow-motion monochrome.

 

But this is Timmy’s first day on set. When Armie strides in, quietly, his call time an hour after Timmy’s, the first shot is already set up for him. Timmy’s in a minimalist wooden chair, back to the camera, an actress kneeling on a pillow in front of him. The shot will be hazy, out of focus, as the camera pans past an indeterminate sexual act to show that Schiele himself was never quite sure where his own desires lay. They’ve chosen an actress with the same fiery red hair as Schiele’s wife, but it will only be glimpsed as she bobs up and down in Timmy’s lap during the three-second shot.

 

The DP is next to Timmy with a light meter when Armie takes his place behind the monitor, but he flashes Armie a thumbs-up when their eyes meet. Armie knows better than to try and speak to Timmy;  now that he’s on set, Egon Schiele himself would answer. 

 

“OK, roll camera,” Armie barks, and his camera operator flashes a thumbs-up. “Marker.” A production assistant smacks the clapper in front of the lens. The actress in front of Timmy bobs her head a few times; from where Armie sits he can see that she’s really on the floor beside Timmy’s feet, but Timmy throws his head back, rolls it from side to side as if in profound ecstasy. The camera operator tracks around Timmy, reaches his ending mark, and Armie calls, “cut!” On the monitor the shot looks fantastic, gauzy and unclear. One change to the actress’ hair should make it perfect.

 

Armie steps into the shot, knowing his change is so miniscule it will be faster to do it himself. He bends over Timmy’s shoulder, indicating how the actress’ hair should show above Timmy’s lap. They run through the motions a few times, Armie standing at a distance and then coming in closer to make sure everything fits together, and although they’re on a set with a hundred people around, in a building owned by his  _ family _ for god’s sake, Armie can’t help thinking of the times he’s been on his knees in front of Timmy, been the cause of Timmy throwing his head back in real ecstasy instead of the facsimile they’re creating here. He bends, adjusts something meaningless on Timmy’s costume, and nips the soft skin of Timmy’s neck once with his canines. And as he pulls away, he feels it: Timmy, underneath his professionalism and character and despite whatever world he’s put his head in for this film,  _ shivers _ at the loss of his touch.

 

“And action!” Armie calls.

 

The shot is perfect. The camera circles behind Timmy as his head rolls back from the pleasure of the hazy debauchery taking place in front of him. There’s no need for another take. Yet Timmy’s morning eyes swim before Armie. Needy, sleepy. Unsatisfied. 

 

He calls, "Back to one!" Everyone resets. Another take. It’s equally perfect. This time he steps into the shot, suggests slightly different blocking for the actress, but it’s all an excuse to adjust the collar of Timmy’s shirt, let his hands linger at the base of Timmy’s throat, slide a hand briefly under Timmy’s collar and feel his pulse jump. Then Armie steps back to the monitor and calls for another take. It looks worse than the first two, but he’s already got what he needs anyway. “OK, head next door for a coffee break, folks. I’m going to walk through the next couple of scenes of blocking with Timmy here.” When Timmy’s head whips around to meet Armie’s gaze, the shock in his eyes is all Timmy, none of his character, and a surprisingly strong wave of satisfaction uncoils in Armie’s stomach.

 

Once the room empties Armie crosses to the opposite corner of the set, where there’s a mirror they’ll use to recreate a famous photo of Schiele in the next shot. Timmy follows, stops in front of the mirror and hunches his shoulders, practicing the blocking. “If you could just--” Armie begins, taking Timmy’s elbow and leading him behind the wall of the set to a passageway meant only for the crew. Once there he spins Timmy around and presses their mouths together so quickly that Timmy huffs a surprised  _ fuck _ into Armie’s mouth before reciprocating, running his tongue along the sharpest edges of Armie’s canines, grinding his lower lip in a slow semicircle against Armie’s. 

 

Timmy’s half hard already, as Armie knew he would be from the repeated takes of the last scene and the feel of Armie’s teeth on his neck. At the first touch of Armie’s hand through the thick costume pants Timmy’s cock swells to full size and begins pulsing in time with his heart. Armie strokes it to the same rhythm, burying his nose in the nape of Timmy’s neck and alternating gentle kisses with light nips against Timmy’s soft skin. He keeps his teeth covered with his lips (there are the makeup artists to consider, after all), but there’s promise in the teasing bites.  _ Later… _

 

Timmy whines into Armie’s ear, grinds up into his hand, seemingly forgetting that nothing he’s wearing actually belongs to him and shouldn’t even get wrinkled. He huffs out _oh_ _ fuck, oh yeah, do we have time-- _ before the question is answered for them. The sound of crew filing back onto the set makes Armie pull away, smoothing the front of Timmy’s pants unhelpfully as he has to drag his hands over Timmy’s dick again with each motion.

 

“Guess someone should have gotten up a little earlier,” Armie singsongs, flashing a grin at Timmy as he returns to his place on the other side of the set.

 

Armie’s not surprised at all when Timmy is fully back in character a few seconds later, stepping back onto the set and taking his place in front of the mirror. The camera is stationery for this shot with the focus puller doing all the work. Armie calls for one take. Timmy freezes, hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched, his eyes as blank as an Austrian mountainside in winter. The shot is perfect.

 

So Armie calls for three more takes. First he pretends to make a miniscule adjustment to Timmy’s posture, while brushing his fingers over the parts of Timmy’s ribs that make him giggle if they’re in public and moan when they’re in private. Before the third take he requests a tie clip and goes to pin Timmy’s tie against his shirt. He slides two fingers inside Timmy’s shirt just above the waist, pretending to hold it flat against Timmy’s stomach, and strokes gently against the downy hairs that pepper Timmy’s stomach. By the final take Armie feels bold. It’s the last thing they’re filming that day. Timmy’s fists are balled into his pockets and Armie reaches one hand into Timmy’s right pocket, gestures toward the mirror and flattens his hand against Timmy’s. “See, it makes a nicer line with the body if your hand is more like this,” Armie murmurs, knowing that his full length is pressed against Timmy’s back. He presses against Timmy’s hand inside his pocket and runs two fingers along the crease of Timmy’s groin, the spot that always makes Timmy’s legs shake when Armie’s got his head between them. And it works this time too, as Timmy draws a shuddered breath but keeps his body absolutely still, in the line that his director wants. That Armie wants.

 

“All right, let’s call it a day,” Armie shouts. “Great work, everyone.”

 

Timmy goes to the corner of the room where the hair and makeup folks have set up a swivel chair and vanity mirror. Immediately the two-person team goes to work wiping off his foundation and spritzing his hair with water. Timmy takes out his phone, starts idly swiping at the screen in the way that Armie can tell means he’s playing Pokemon Go. 

 

Armie pulls out his own phone, keeping a steady eye on Timmy, and taps out a text.

 

_ AH: You still hard for me, baby? _

 

He allows a millisecond for the text to cross the room and then sees Timmy’s shoulders straighten as the inevitable notification arrives. He swipes his finger frantically on the screen, clearly trying to dismiss it before the makeup team sees. They finish removing his pancake makeup and move on to combing product out of his swooping, moody hairstyle.

 

When Armie sees that Timmy’s shoulders have drooped a bit and he seems engrossed in the game again, he fires off a few more texts in quick succession.

 

_ AH: You better still be hard for me. You know what happens if you don’t do what I say. _

 

_ AH: Like Budapest. You remember Budapest. _

 

_ AH: Tied you to that nice fancy hotel bed. Left the vibrator in while I went downstairs for dinner. _

 

_ AH: You don’t want that again. Or do you? _

 

It’s a good thing the crew has already removed Timmy’s makeup, because it affords Armie the pleasure of seeing a blush creep from the back of Timmy’s neck to the top of his angular cheekbones as the texts come in one after another. He doesn’t even bother swiping the final one away as the hairstylist tousles his damp curls and pronounces him product-free. 

 

When Timmy slinks wordlessly to his dressing room to change, Armie wonders if he’s gone too far. Timmy’s a private person sometimes. And Armie’s pride at being the one Timmy comes home to, cooks with, fucks loudly--sometimes in places Armie would never have expected--it can make Armie careless. 

 

His phone buzzes in his pocket. A text.

 

_ TC: My dressing room. Now. _

 

When Armie opens the dressing room door Timmy’s already out of the costume, in only a pair of gray sweatpants that sit low on his hips. He’s toweling the water from his hair and in the low light Armie can see Timmy’s muscles ripple as he moves. Like a river beneath the desert. The only light comes from a lamp on a low table; it was dim to begin with and Timmy’s thrown some designer velvet scarf over part of it so it’s dimmer still.

 

He doesn’t speak.  _ Oh, so it’s going to be like this, is it? _

 

“I didn’t mean to go too far with those texts, Tim. I never think that sometimes you’re not as...open about those things as I am.”

 

Timmy still hasn’t met Armie’s eyes. He throws the towel onto the back of a nearby couch and slinks over to stand in front of Armie, head down. When he tips his head up his eyes are closed but his lips are parted, as if he expects a kiss. He’s even running his tongue over his uneven Cupid’s bow. But when Armie bends to him Timmy puts a hand on Armie’s chest, holding him where he is.

 

“Uh-uh.” Timmy opens his eyes, and there’s mock anger there. But Armie knows Timmy too well, and he’s too good an actor to play the wrong emotion. What’s beneath the false anger is a genuine fire. Timmy steps backward, lowers himself onto the couch on his back. He rests a hand at the waistband of his sweats. “First, you’re gonna make it up to me.”

 

Armie loves Timmy like this, bossy but pliant, submitting a step at a time like a slow plunge into a warm pool. And Armie knows his role. He kneels on the floor beside the couch. One of Timmy’s long legs is stretched out on the couch; the other dangles onto the floor and Armie places himself between them. Armie hooks his thumbs under Timmy’s waistband and tugs them down, wriggling aside so he can pull them free and toss them into a corner, instantly forgotten. Immediately Timmy wraps his free leg around Armie, pressing him into the couch, pushing him to come closer between Timmy’s legs. Timmy’s flushed cock is pressed against his stomach, held in place by a half-moon of precome. But instead Armie presses Timmy’s leg further into the back of the couch, pushing his calves until both knees are bent. When the motion opens Timmy’s entrance just a bit, Armie grins, flashing his canines at Timmy, and then bends to circle Timmy’s hole with his tongue.

 

“Armie, I--fuck...are you sure?” When Armie pulls back suddenly, makes as if to end the act before it started, Timmy whines at the loss of contact. “Fine, fine, yes, OK, please.” When Armie doesn’t resume his ministrations Timmy extends a leg, rests it on Armie’s shoulder, using his knee to pull Armie closer. “Please.” Timmy whines again, but it’s breathy, soft, and needy. Armie runs his hands along the outside of Timmy’s thighs, digging his fingers in just a bit as he bends his head again, taking Timmy’s balls in his mouth one by one and running his tongue along the loose skin separating them. He pulls back with a pop and laps around the ridged rim of Timmy’s hole until Timmy’s grinding into his mouth, seeking  _ more _ . And that’s exactly when he pulls away completely, sliding his head up to lick a single wide stripe along the underside of Timmy’s cock and feel it jump under his lips. “God, fuck, will you just--” Timmy pants, tilting his hips upward in an indication of what he wants even if he’s incapable of saying it. 

 

“Eh-eh-eh,” Armie teases, letting his tongue drag across Timmy’s cock in a back-and-forth motion as he shakes his head. “You wanted me to make it up to you, and I feel  _ really bad _ about sending you those texts in public. So embarrassing.” Armie brings a finger to his mouth, tucks it into the corner of his lips, wets the tip with saliva. “So disrespectful of how professional you are.” His wet fingertip is now circling Timmy’s entrance, but every time Timmy shifts his hips to get any part of Armie inside him, Armie pulls his hand away completely. “I would have felt just,” he slides the pad of his finger inside Timmy, less than a fingerprint, but it’s something, the tiniest stretch, “just terrible if someone had found out the things you let me do to you.” He pushes his finger in quickly to the first knuckle, a little dry but Timmy breathes through it and stretches quickly to accommodate him. “The things you  _ want me _ to do to you.”

 

Armie circles his fingertip lazily inside Timmy, feeling the ring of muscle clenching around him when Timmy grits his teeth, when he chuckles, when he pants, “ _ fuck _ , Armie, I forgive you, or I will as soon if you get your hand on me. Your mouth.  _ Something _ .” Armie chuckles, lowers his head again, nips the inside of Timmy’s thigh with one of his canines. He circles Timmy’s rim with his tongue, slowly withdrawing his finger but sliding his tongue in to replace it. The taste of  _ Timmy _ that he knows so well bursts onto his tongue, salt and sweat and a hint of the minty soaps that Timmy loves. Armie wraps one fist around Timmy’s cock, which is already wet with sweat and precome and spit. He pumps his tongue into Timmy at the same rate he strokes his cock at first, then varies them so he knows Timmy’s getting a nonstop wall of sensation. Just a few strokes later he feels Timmy’s thigh start to tremble beside his head and he starts to squeeze at the top of his strokes, rubbing precome gently from Timmy’s slit to the base of the head. “I’m--fuck--I’m--” Timmy chokes out, and once Armie feels Timmy’s cock pulse in his hand he slides up to cup the head in his lips, feeling the warmth of Timmy’s cum spreading over his tongue.

 

Timmy draws two deep breaths, eyes closed, and then starts grasping blindly with one hand, seeking contact. Armie slides up to bracket Timmy with his arms, leaning over him, giving Timmy one firm bicep to hold. Timmy opens his still-dazed eyes, puckers his lips a little for a kiss, but Armie shakes his head. He leans down until he’s hovering just over Timmy and nudges his nose against Timmy’s upper lip until Timmy, confused, opens his mouth just a bit. Just enough for Armie to hold his lips mere centimeters from Timmy’s, curl his tongue, and let a bit of Timmy’s cum slide from his mouth into Timmy’s waiting lips. When Timmy realizes what’s happening he whimpers low in his throat and arches up to close the remaining distance between them. He laps at Armie’s tongue with his own until all the taste of him is gone, then breaks the kiss to nuzzle Armie’s chest with his head.

 

“Do you want me to…” Timmy runs a hand down Armie’s stomach to his waistband, to where Armie’s cock is pressing insistently against Timmy’s thigh.

 

“Let’s get you dressed first,” Armie says, in a tone that starts with fondness and ends with lust. “Maybe when we get home we can get around to some of those things we didn’t have time for this morning.”   


 

“Not my fault,” Timmy pouts, sticking out his bottom lip and keeping one eye on Armie to make sure he notices.

 

He notices. Armie ruffles Timmy’s hair, plants one more short kiss on his lips, and unfolds himself from the couch to hand Timmy his sweatpants. If this has all been another one of Timmy’s schemes to get exactly what he wants while making Armie think it was his idea, well, it’s worked again.

 

“ _ Fine _ , Timmy. Fine. Call time tomorrow is now two hours later.”

**Author's Note:**

> The photo of Schiele they are attempting to recreate can be found here:  
> https://www.mutualart.com/Artwork/Egon-Schiele-in-front-of-large-studio-mi/130266058EB6BA5A
> 
> I have already had requests from some early readers to make what happened in Budapest its own related fic, so...that's on the table, if there seems to be interest.
> 
> I'm dreamofhorses42 on Tumblr.


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